Haunted
by KuryakinGirl
Summary: Brooklyn, New York feels like forever ago to the Winter Soldier. Because it was. Bucky struggles to remember guideposts from his past, touchstones to keep him grounded in a world gone haywire.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer – No copyright infringement intended. Characters belong to Marvel/Disney/their creators. Any similarity to events or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Notes – Thanks as always to my dear friend Cindy Ryan. So glad you're my pal! This takes place pretty much all over the Captain America trilogy timeline.

Haunted – Brooklyn, New York feels like forever ago to the Winter Soldier. Because it was. Bucky struggles to remember guideposts from his past, touchstones to keep him grounded in a world gone haywire.

* * *

The memories are fragmented at best. They're overwhelming in number and frustratingly out of order. Bits and pieces come at him from all angles, and he fights to sift through them, ignoring the men around him, the orders being barked at him.

The problem is, he doesn't remember him like that, not really, not as much.

He remembers a punk, a kid, someone slight, someone short, someone with a heart bigger than all of Manhattan.

He struggles to remember, because he's not just a designation, not just a number, not just a tool, an assassin. For the first time in a long time, he starts to think that he's not just a soldier to follow orders, but he's a man, someone with a past, someone with a history, someone with people who care about him.

Steve. He remembers Steve.

And when Pierce's hand connects with his face, he sees red for the briefest of moments, because he sees his father, too, and the memories start to crystallize. It's not just blue eyes looking at him from across the schoolroom now. It's games of stick ball on sunny Saturdays in empty streets. It's enduring Sunday School so that he can go home with Steve for Mrs. Rogers' famous meatloaf and apple pie for lunch. It's sleepovers on the floor, a fort made from the couch cushions and blankets. It's blissfully a boyhood existence, one without sisters for a while because...

He feels like he's been run over by a truck. He has sisters. Three of them. Lily, Violet, and Rose. They used to write him letters when he went to war.

Germany. Hitler. Red Skull.

Steve.

Zola.

It's like the floodgates are open now. Like his life was hiding behind a dam and it burst, all because of Steve.

Steve is his mission, but as he's slammed back into the seat, into the machine that's about to wipe his memories clean again, he remembers that Steve was always his mission, from that very first day, when Rosie came running to him across the playground, fear in her eyes...

When the pain starts, he's desperate to hang onto that moment, to grip it tight with his fingers, his arms, his very heart and soul.

* * *

She was quite possibly the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen in his life. His very young life, but still. She had to be an angel sent to earth, with her soft brown curls tied back in a periwinkle ribbon that matched her bright blue eyes. School had just ended, and he had to walk his sisters home, but Nora Manetti's home was only a handful of blocks past their apartment. James Buchanan – Bucky – Barnes was sure he could walk with her, let his sisters spin and twirl ahead of them. His smile came easily – it always did. "Hey, Nora," Bucky said, watching as she turned those bright blue eyes to him.

She smiled shyly. "Oh," she said softly, almost surprised to see him so close. "Hi, Bucky."

"I was wondering if –" he began, but his question was cut off before he could really even get it started.

"Bucky!" screamed a shrill Rosie, running as fast as her little five year old legs could take her.

He felt like he'd been doused in ice water, his intense gaze suddenly on his youngest sister who barreled into him. "What's wrong?" he asked as she tugged on his shirt to get him to move with her.

"It's Vi! You have to hurry!"

"Sorry, Nora," Bucky tossed over his shoulder as he scooped Rose into his arms. "Where?" he asked as he began to tear through the playground, following where his youngest sister pointed. He wasn't sure he liked how scared she was, that she was trembling against him, that her other hand held onto his collar in a death grip, her tiny fingers icy cold against the back of his neck.

He knew that Violet had been having trouble with a boy in her class, a bully with curly red hair, skin covered in freckles. While their mother had been insistent that it wasn't that bad, that it only meant that Donal liked Violet, the shy, bookish girl wasn't sure about that and because of his sister's hesitance, neither was Bucky.

By the time they got to the swings, Lily was hugging Violet – who held her broken glasses in anguish, and the whole left side of her dress was covered in dirt where she'd clearly hit the ground. He put Rose down, reaching out to put a big brotherly hand on Violet's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"My glasses," she whispered, showing him the bent frames.

He knew that would be another fight once they got home, but he'd handle it. Like he was going to handle the boy who'd hurt her. "Where is he?" he asked, searching his sister's teary brown eyes.

Lily answered for Violet. "He and Steve Rogers are behind the shed," she told him, wincing a bit.

Everybody in school knew Steve. Bucky knew he was sickly a lot, small for his age. And he knew Donal was stocky, the son of a dockworker. It wasn't an even fight at all. He winced, a little afraid he'd be scooping up what was left of Steve.

Everybody in the school also knew there was only one place on the yard that was out of view from the teachers, and that was behind the lean-to that held the grounds equipment.

Bucky had been in more than his fair share of fights back there and had come away with bruised knuckles, black eyes, and an understanding of how to move – how to put out damage, and how to avoid taking it. "I'll be back in a minute," he told them, looking from Violet to Lily, holding her gaze until she nodded solemnly. Bucky couldn't leave them alone without knowing that Lily would make sure they all got somewhere safe without him. Though Rosie tried to hold onto his shirt, he removed her fingers gently, and tucked her in with his other sisters.

By the time he reached the back of the shed, there was quite a crowd that had gathered around to watch. Most were laughing, and Bucky could hear the sound of fists hitting flesh, a sound that made his stomach churn if he were being honest. He was a big brother, though, a young man, a boy that was going to grow up to be someone strong and tough, and he wasn't about to let anyone get away with hurting his sisters.

Shoving his way through the crowd, he spotted Steve getting up slowly, his nose bloody, a cut on his cheek, and a bruise already purpling under his right eye. "Why don't you pick on somebody your own size?" Bucky asked, his hands already clenching into fists. His arms were down at his sides, though, his body relaxed, almost like he'd casually asked which way to the soda shop.

"I got this guy, don't worry," Steve said between deep, gasping breaths.

It looked to Bucky like a good gust of wind would send the slight boy sprawling onto the ground again, and that it might be the kind of hit that would keep Steve down. "Tell you what," Bucky began, watching as Donal turned – he hadn't even broken a sweat. Yet. "We'll take this guy together, yeah?"

Steve smiled a little, giving Bucky a quick nod.

Donal laughed, and took a swing at Bucky but he easily dodged it, landing one of his own on Donal's jaw, who was already unbalanced from missing his target.

With Donal swaying on his feet, Steve managed to kick, his scuffed shoe connecting solidly with the bully's shin.

Donal was so furious that he ignored Steve entirely, returning his focus solely to Bucky, coming at him with rage, but the attack was still unfocused, sloppy.

Two more solid punches from Bucky and Donal was falling onto his butt on the packed dirt. He knelt down, jerking Donal back up to look at him. "You so much as look at my sister again, we're gonna be right back out here, and I'll knock teeth out next time," he warned.

"You and what army?" Donal scoffed, trying to save face in front of the now silent crowd of boys around them.

"Just me and Steve," he said simply. "That's all it's ever gonna take," Bucky told him, releasing his shirt, which made Donal fall back, his head bouncing as it landed. He stood, dusting his hands off on his slacks. With one look, the crowd parted, and Bucky walked out, his head high, Steve right behind him.

"Thank you," Bucky said quietly as they headed around from the shed, his eyes searching the yard for his sisters – they weren't where he'd left them.

"I had him on the ropes," Steve said, shrugging.

Bucky smiled a little, unsure if Steve was a liar or just that optimistic. "You stood up for my sister," he said, his shoulders relaxing when he realized that Lily had herded Violet and Rosie to a bench, and that Lily was trying to gently unbend the glasses. He turned to look at Steve. "That means something to me."

Steve shrugged a shoulder. "Donal's a bully. He shouldn't pick on your sister – or anyone else."

"Hopefully he won't again. Because of us. I'm Bucky," he said.

He smiled. "Steve Rogers."

Bucky chuckled. "Steve, you wanna help me look after my sisters on the way home? We aren't too far. Tompkins and Pulaski."

"It's my way home anyway," he said. "I'm on Hart." As Bucky took a step toward his sisters, though, Steve stopped him. "Hey... did you mean what you said back there?"

Bucky turned back to look at him, and frowned, not sure what he'd said that hadn't been believable. "About what?"

"That you and me, we'd stop him again."

Bucky blinked. "Well, yeah. We stopped him this time, didn't we?"

Steve smiled slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, we did."

"You need some ice or somethin', pal? Your folks gonna be upset if you come home with a shiner?" There was a little diner that sometimes he'd stop at on the way home – one that understood that boys were boys, and that would usually let him buy a treat for his sisters to share while he held a cold cloth to his eye and waited for the swelling to go down. It would be the first time Bucky wouldn't need the ice for himself.

"Sounds like a pretty good idea," admitted Steve with a smile.

Bucky nodded, and they collected his sisters. He threw a big brotherly arm around Violet, and Rosie, to his surprise, grabbed Steve's hand as they walked to the diner. Once there, he made sure his sisters took one booth with a generous slice of carrot cake, and he slid across from Steve in another.

Steve winced as he pressed the ice against his eye. "My mom's a nurse," he said quietly. "But she's on shift right now."

"She work late nights?" he asked, surprised. His mom didn't work. She'd be at home, already working on a roast that would drive Bucky insane until 7:30, when dinner would be promptly served. His stomach growled in anticipation at the thought.

"Sometimes," Steve said, and he grew quiet.

"What's your dad do?" he asked, running his fingers across the grain on the wooden table.

Steve remained quiet for a long moment before finally looking up at Bucky, through one eye. "My dad died when I was young."

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, and he was, although his mind drifted to a dark place, a place where he wished it hadn't gone. He tried to shove those thoughts aside as quickly as they'd surfaced.

"He was a soldier. The 107th infantry. A hero," Steve told him.

"Like you, huh?" he asked, smiling a little.

Steve laughed warmly. "No, not like me at all."

"You're a hero to Vi," he said, nodding to the booth across the aisle from them. "Who knows what might've happened if you hadn't gotten there when you did."

"Well," Steve said slowly, "I'm glad I could help her."

"Me, too," Bucky admitted, and he glanced at Violet, who looked to be in much better spirits, especially with a bite of cake on her fork. He smiled softly, almost absently, but it was clearly a look that Steve caught.

"What's it like?" he asked. "Having sisters?"

Bucky laughed, leaning back against the booth. "Boring," he told him. "I hear a lot about clothes and hair bows. The kind of weddings they're all going to have when they grow up." While he rolled his eyes, he adored his sisters – all three of them. But sometimes they could be a little much.

"Do you have any brothers?"

He shook his head. "No, it's just me and them. Sometimes I wish I had brothers. Sometimes I'm glad I'm the only one."

While Steve tilted his head, he didn't press, which Bucky appreciated.

"What about you?" he asked.

"It's just me and my mom," he said, shrugging. "And me coming home with a black eye isn't exactly new." Steve slowly lowered the ice pack. "How's it looking?"

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, wincing. "Pretty dark," he admitted. "Are you sure you'll be all right on your own?"

"I have been so far," Steve promised.

"Hey, listen, I should get the girls headed home. Maybe we could walk to school together tomorrow? I set out as early as I can with them, but sometimes they take a while to get ready." Bucky glanced at his sisters, still not sure how they could take so long to dress in the mornings.

"I'll wait at my building, then, till I see you."

Bucky smiled. "Sounds good." He dug into his pocket, pulling out change for the slice of cake and nodding to the diner owner, who only chuckled as they left.

After three blocks, Bucky waved goodbye to Steve. In the final block of the walk, he felt a growing, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach, like the night was going to be terrible, awful. It was a familiar sensation, and he always did his best to ignore it, to fight it, but it was a losing battle.

Feeling eyes on him, he glanced at Lily, who was watching him worriedly. He gave her a gentle smile, though, and they slowed their walk, Violet and Rose skipping ahead, giggling as they repeated a hopscotch rhyme. "Maybe take Vi and Rosie to bed early tonight?" he asked her quietly.

"It's not fair, Bucky," she told him.

"You know it's the only way." He shrugged a shoulder. "And that it's better this way."

Lily drew in a slow breath. "Here," she said, offering him Violet's still bent glasses. "I did everything I could."

"I know you did." He met her eyes. "Now it's my turn."

She nodded a little. "I wish you'd seen him. Steve getting between her and Donal. I'd never seen anyone do that before, besides you."

Bucky nodded. "He seems like a good guy. He's not... He's not who I thought he was." Because Steve was ill all the time, and because he was always in fights that ended badly, he had assumed – wrongly – that Steve was getting bullied with no one to stand up for him. He hadn't even stopped to consider, for one second, that Steve was standing up, even as wheezy and sickly as he was. If Steve could do that, knowing he'd never win, well, that was an interesting concept, and it was something that resonated with him.

Lily stopped fully. "I'm really glad you're my big brother," she told him suddenly.

He looked at her, perplexed for a moment, then he smiled. "Why wouldn't you be?" he teased. But he froze suddenly. Violet and Rose had reached the stoop, and he watched as they were scooped up into strong arms.

Lily hugged him tightly, and for a moment, he held on for dear life.

"Go," Bucky told her. "It'll be all right," he promised. And he hoped it was a promise he was able to keep.

* * *

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes will Return...

Lines from the Next Installment:

"Hey, you never have told me why," Steve said, settling back against his pillow.

"Why what?" he asked, frowning.

Steve met his eyes. "Why your folks would name you after a President, and not keep a family name."

Bucky hesitated for a long moment, but they were long past the point where should be keeping any secrets. There were still a few that he kept quiet, hidden, but they gnawed at him.


	2. Chapter 2

For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

Previously: Bucky struggles to remember, after Steve recognized him, before his memory gets wiped. He recalls meeting Steve for the first time, a schoolyard fight, and taking care of his sisters.

* * *

His whole world freezes. Really, it does that often, with big gaps in time. But it generally doesn't happen when he's conscious, when there's fire all around him, when there's a fight to be won. The fragments that he so often tries to ignore feel like they're stabbing his brain as he remembers Steve. As he remembers his friend – his best friend.

And his best friend is plummeting to the Potomac.

His stomach churns and his brain screams at him. Not for the first time, there's a fight in his head, but the darkness doesn't win like it usually does. It feels almost sepia in nature, the light that's shining on the black corners of his mind, desperate to vanquish the shadows. For the first time in a while, he doesn't retreat to the safety of the inky veil. Instead, he lets the light in, and even though it's searing and painful, he knows it's necessary.

And he knows that he cannot let anything happen to Steve. Anymore than he has, whether willingly participating in the caper or not. As he releases his grip on the helicarrier, as he falls with purpose into the water, he hopes he's not too late.

But that would be just his luck, wouldn't it?

To lose everything. To be the cause of it. To realize only once it's too late.

To be a failure.

As he dives into the water, he wishes the river could wash him clean of all the bad he's done in his life, and the litany of sins is long. While he's never been overly religious, he knows there's no God that would forgive him for everything he'd done. Why would any divine being want him in the ranks of heaven, with space saved for the good, the devout, the heroic, when he is anything but?

Oddly, for the first time in as long as he can remember, the often confusing, thick Latin words from Mass come back to him.

 _Mea maxima culpa_.

The water stings his eyes, and he's not sure if it's from the particulate in the river, or if it's because of the emotions, long since ignored, are coming to the surface, warring in his heart. His chest hurts, but he guesses it could be from the lack of oxygen, from the battle they'd just endured. It's a bad guess and he knows it. In his heart of hearts, if there is such a thing, if there is such a place, he knows his chest hurts because he's been so wrong for so long.

When his hand finds Steve's, he can only hope that he's not too late.

Hope is a funny feeling. It's a sensation he'd nearly forgotten about. It's a lump in his throat. So is worry. It's a knot in the pit of his stomach. It's cold fingers around his heart.

But, Steve is breathing. Steve, who never walked away from a fight, ever, until now... He's breathing.

There's a brief moment of utter relief, but he knows it can't last. It shouldn't. He doesn't deserve it. As he starts to walk away, he realizes he's never deserved it.

* * *

Ever since the fight with Donal, Steve and Bucky were inseparable. They walked to school each morning and home again in the afternoon, always with Bucky's sisters in tow. Every day that Steve wasn't ill, at least. Sometimes there were weeks at a time when Steve would be home, in bed under thick blankets but still shivering.

Bucky hated seeing Steve like that, but he came by every day after getting his sisters home, bringing a few assignments so that he wouldn't fall too far behind – because he wasn't about to tackle the next grade without him. He smiled when Steve's mom opened the door. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Rogers," he said cordially.

Sarah Rogers smiled, but crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Now, Bucky, we've had this discussion, haven't we?"

"Well... yeah," he said, frowning a bit.

"Surely we're not going to have to have it again," she said, unable to keep the smile from her face.

Bucky really liked Steve's mom. She was kind, a good cook, and he'd never seen a woman smile so much before, despite everything. "But it's respectful," he pointed out.

"And I think you're here as much as you're at your own home. Surely Sarah would work, at least while you're here," she said, opening the door wider to him.

"I suppose it might," he relented. But, he'd have to watch it. Sometimes Bucky would be with his family and they'd run into Steve and Sarah at church, or the store, or somewhere. And the very last thing he wanted to do was slip up and misspeak in front of his father. "How's he doin' today?" he asked.

Sarah's smile softened and she touched his shoulder as he came in. "Steve's feeling some better," she admitted. And her smile grew. "Finally. I thought, if it's all right with your folks, maybe you could stay for dinner tomorrow. I know he'd love the company."

As much as he enjoyed his own mother's cooking, there was something even better about dinner at the Rogers' apartment. "I'll talk to them," he said with a nod. "Thank you."

"Of course, Bucky. You know you're always welcome here. And, if you two fellas need anything..."

"We'll let you know," he promised. He headed down the hall, quite familiar with his home away from home, and let himself into Steve's room. Instead of being burrowed under quilts, Steve was actually sitting up when he came in. "Well, look at you," Bucky said with a grin.

Steve smiled back. "Guess I'm not dead yet."

"Good!" he announced, dropping unceremoniously to sit beside him on the bed. "'Cause I cannot do this history project on my own."

"You're a good student, Buck," Steve promised.

He scoffed. "Yeah, well... wait till you see what we're supposed to do. I tried to get us a better topic, something war-related..." Steve talked about his dad so much, and why shouldn't he? Steve's father was a real war hero, a man of honor, a man who understood the cost of freedom, and who had paid the price willingly. Bucky knew how proud Steve was of his father, knowing the exploits of the 107th almost as well as Steve by now. He felt like he knew Steve's late father, just from Steve's and occasionally Sarah's memories. "But, unfortunately, my name got it picked for us."

"President Buchanan?" Steve guessed.

"Yeah," Bucky said with a sigh. What little he'd found in the history book already hadn't exactly inspired him to be thankful that he had the same name as the fifteenth man to lead the country. There didn't seem to be any exciting tales of daring courage that might inspire them to greatness. The late President seemed mediocre at best.

"Say, you never have told me why," Steve said, settling back against his pillow.

"Why what?" Bucky asked, frowning as he was pulled from his thoughts.

Steve met his eyes. "Why your folks would name you after a President, and not keep a family name."

Bucky hesitated for a long moment, but they were long past the point where should be keeping any secrets. There were still a few that he kept quiet, hidden, but they gnawed at him. He knew he needed to tell Steve, that Steve would help him carry the burdens that weighed down his shoulders. But, somehow, it didn't make him feel any better about the truth of his situation.

He drew in a slow breath before finally telling him. "My dad didn't want a son," he admitted. While Steve looked genuinely flabbergasted and shocked, Bucky was desperate to fill the silence, so it didn't consume them. "It's not so bad," he told him. "Sometimes it's not great, but a lot of time, we just avoid each other. So, rather than giving me his name, he just... opened a history book." Bucky held up his battered text. Once the words started flowing, it was hard to stop them. "He calls me James. Or Jimmy. He doesn't like Bucky, but the rest of the family calls me that, so he's kind of... stuck with it." Steve's blue eyes looked so wounded, and Bucky couldn't stand it. "Really, it's okay."

"But, surely he's proud of everything you've done, of the kind of man you're growing up to be," Steve managed.

"I really don't know," he admitted. Again, the silence threatened, and Bucky's mouth just... moved. "It's fine. Really. I don't need to know what he thinks."

"But he's your father," Steve said.

Bucky knew Steve would give anything to have his father back. Would that he could, he'd have traded their fathers, so that Steve could have his living, breathing, dancing with Sarah to the radio in the living room after dinner. That reality just wasn't meant to be. He shrugged. "A lot of times, he doesn't act like it." There was more to the story, more information that he really needed to tell Steve, but he froze. And the silence ate at him until he couldn't stand it. Until he finally decided to confess something else. Bucky bit the inside of his cheek for a second before admitting: "I wish... Sometimes I wish your dad was my dad, too." He glanced at Steve. "It wouldn't be so bad, would it? If I were your brother."

The bravado he often showed had a purpose. It was a mask, a shield, a tool to protect himself. It came easily, like second nature. It hid the scars and the pain, because he could be the gregarious, outgoing, genial young man he was supposed to be, the flirt with the girls, the guy to hang out with, who knew how to have fun, who was welcoming and warm.

The truth of the matter was, sometimes he wasn't confident. Sometimes taking swings at bullies was just what he did, not who he was. He didn't feel like a hero. He didn't feel brave. A lot of the time, he felt small. And only sitting there, with his best friend, did those feeling start to show themselves, did he realize that he and Steve had more in common than it seemed on the surface.

"Thing is, Buck... We've been brothers," Steve told him. "For as long as I can remember."

"I couldn't ask for a better brother," he said quietly, honestly.

Steve elbowed him. "You better not," he told him with a grin. "You're stuck with me. You know that, right? We're family."

"Family," he echoed, nodding. Except, he had to make sure. "No matter what?" he asked, glancing at Steve. It wasn't that he doubted Steve's conviction – far from it. For a young man that could exude confidence, the truth of the matter was, it was still part of the lie, part of the life he'd created for himself. It was all a sham, a fake, a house of cards. While he knew others saw his friendship with Steve as something Steve needed to survive, to make his way through life, Bucky knew it was the exact opposite. Steve could get along just fine without him. He'd get into more fights, maybe, but he would be fine. Bucky, on the other hand, not so much.

And maybe that was why they gravitated toward each other, why they'd become such good friends, where the line between friendship and brotherhood had blurred. Neither of them had a solid male figure in their life. They needed role models, and while they wanted to have a father they could go to, and ask questions, seek guidance, neither of them had that. But they had each other.

"Always," Steve told him. "No matter what."

Bucky's tense shoulders finally relaxed. Steve said it. And whatever Steve said, he backed up, a hundred percent. It didn't matter what the topic was, if Steve gave you his word, it was golden. They might not have been born to the same parents, but they'd crossed paths, they'd made their own choices. And now, it wouldn't matter about the past, about the demons that occasionally chased after Bucky – the ones that threatened to win. Steve had promised him.

He realized he should want to come clean, to tell Steve everything. But there were only so many bombshells he could drop in one day. There was only so much he could let go of, so much he could ask Steve to shoulder with him. It was also part of his life, for better or worse. The silence was better, as they started reading their history text, as Bucky started to think more about homework instead of his home life.

When Steve started to chuckle, Bucky glanced over. "What's so funny?" he asked, because everything he was reading about the lead-up to the Civil War under Buchanan's administration seemed terribly dry and definitely dreadful.

"Your folks should've picked somebody else to name you after," Steve managed, trying to stifle his laughter but failing.

"Why? 'Cause he's so boring?" asked Bucky.

Steve laid his book between them, pointing at a paragraph. "Because you're nothing like him either," he said. "President Buchanan was never married. You can't go three steps without noticing a girl."

"What exactly is the point of life if there isn't a dame involved?" Bucky asked.

"Wonder what would happen if we turned in a comparison piece? James Buchanan or James Buchanan Barnes," said Steve, grinning. "Bygone bachelor or budding bridegroom."

Bucky narrowed his eyes. "You're a punk sometimes, you know that, brother?"

Steve started laughing harder, having to hold his stomach because it hurt. "Fifteenth president, or fifteen years old?"

"Just 'cause you've been sick, it doesn't mean I'm not above knocking you down a peg..."

"I'm short enough as it is, aren't I?" Steve asked between guffaws.

"Ohh, that's what I'll do," Bucky said, grinning. "I'll take your newspaper stash."

The change that came over Steve was instantaneous. "Hey, wait a minute. That's not fair. I had to sweep and mop the floors at the barbershop to get enough money to buy a whole stack. It'll last me the rest of the school year." Off Bucky's smug grin, Steve sighed. "Jerk."

"So, we're back to writing a boring paper on a boring president... so that you might one day stuff the perfectly average C we're going to get in your shoes to be an eighth of an inch taller?"

Steve huffed. "No." But, then he grinned. "It's going to be a perfectly respectable B at least."

It was finally Bucky's turn to laugh, a warm sound that filled up the whole room. Steve was feeling better, cutting up and joking again. And while he didn't get to choose who had given birth to him, Bucky had picked and been accepted by a much better family – a brother in Steve, a surrogate mom in Sarah. All felt right in Bucky's world for once.

* * *

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes will Return...

Lines from the next installment:

"You know somethin'," he said slowly. "I admire the hell out of you. You never back down from a fight. No matter how big the other guy is. All that matters is what's right and what's wrong." He looked up at Steve, whose forehead was still scrunched up, worry lines deeply formed. "I wish I saw things like that."

"Why don't you?"

Bucky puffed air out his cheeks. "I see too much gray, I guess," he said softly, and he reached up, rubbing at his sore jaw.


	3. Chapter 3

For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

Previously: Bucky saves Steve from the Potomac. He recalls the moment when they realized they were more than friends, they were brothers, when Bucky finally told Steve everything.

* * *

He realizes he'd been fooling himself as he heads back to his apartment. While Bucharest isn't Brooklyn, nothing is home. Too much has changed in the last 70 years.

To even think about time like that makes him tired, and those fragmented memories he still sifts through every night are exhausting enough.

His past is still hard to piece together, and he wishes he knew how to do it better than writing everything down in those damn notebooks. But it's the only way he can try to string together the years, the half-remembered dreams that haunt him.

Ever since walking way from the riverbanks, from Steve's unconscious but still breathing body, he's been trying to become Bucky, the friend that Steve knew with crystal clarity up there on the helicarrier. He's not there yet.

And now he's got to fight again.

He feels every bit of nearly a hundred as he quietly makes his way into his apartment.

If he can just get his backpack, he knows he can avoid the teams dispatched to get him, thanks to that observant guy at the newsstand. After all, the last few years, he's been able to live undetected, off-grid, one step ahead of Hydra, of SHIELD, or what was left of either of them.

But before he can get his backpack, he freezes. There's Steve – big as life – standing in his kitchen.

He knows exactly why he lies, why he tells Steve that the only things he remember are what he learned from a museum. Because he's caused Steve enough pain to last three lifetimes. And he doesn't want to be the cause of it any longer.

He's too broken, too lost, too damaged to be Steve's friend – his brother – now.

And the very least that Bucky can do is protect Steve from that.

He wonders if it would be better, to let Steve think he's the monster that the rest of the world knows him to be.

Somewhere, deep down, he knows that Steve won't let him go, no matter what. And while that's comforting on one hand. It scares the hell out of him on the other.

* * *

He climbed up the fire escape. It was late, dark, and way past time for a visit. But Bucky needed a place to go, and there was only one place in the world he knew he'd be safe. He tapped on Steve's window, waving a little when his friend woke, his eyes wide.

Steve was at the window in a second, throwing it open. "Buck... what...?"

"Can I stay?" he asked. "I just... Just for tonight, and I'll figure everything else out in the morning."

"You have a black eye," Steve realized, backing up to let his friend in. "Your jaw looks swollen."

Bucky clapped Steve's shoulder lightly. "I'm all right," he told him quietly, though the conviction wasn't there. "Just... I could stay right here," he said, lowering himself to sit on the floor beside Steve's twin bed.

"You gotta tell me what happened," Steve told him. "But... hang on..." He vanished for a moment and returned, rather comically trying to carry the couch cushions from the living room, making a makeshift bed in the floor for Bucky.

They hadn't done that in a long time – not since they'd become teenagers, anyway. He gave a slight chuckle. "Your mom's gonna know I'm here now."

"She won't care. She never cares when you come by."

"I don't know why," Bucky said, slowly stretching out, wincing a bit.

"Sure you do," Steve said, frowning.

Somewhere, in the back of his head, he knew it was because Sarah saw him as another son, as Steve's brother, too. But he didn't feel worthy of that kind of affection from her at all. Or from Steve.

"Buck... who did this?"

He wasn't sure why the answer was hard for him to say. But it was. The admission, the cold fear in the pit of his belly, the secret he'd kept for so long, the one that was so heavy and hard to hold, still weighed on his shoulders, on his very soul.

Most bullies at school had learned not to go up against Bucky, and, by extension, Steve, because Bucky was never far behind. It wasn't that he had ever gone looking for trouble. Trouble usually found him, by way of Steve in a David against Goliath bout, spurred on by truth, justice, and/or the American way. Bucky was there just to prevent Steve from getting flattened. And now, their reputations preceded them.

It was late for him to be out, hanging out at the diner on the corner, talking to girls. That was about the only way Bucky got himself into trouble, chatting with someone who already had a boyfriend. How was he supposed to know? Especially when he would strike up a conversation with a beautiful girl and she would start talking – flirting – back, like she wasn't already going steady with some guy who went to a different school, or who was already working.

The only explanation, the only true answer, was probably obvious. So, Bucky avoided the question. "Tell me about your dad again," he said softly. "A daring exploit of Joseph Rogers, war hero."

"You've heard all the stories a hundred times. I want to know what happened today."

Bucky shook his head. "Doesn't matter," he said quietly.

"You matter," Steve told him firmly. "You matter to me. You're hurt. And whoever did this..." Steve drifted off warningly, but he didn't finish his thought.

"You know somethin'," he said slowly. "I admire the hell out of you. You never back down from a fight. No matter how big the other guy is. All that matters is what's right and what's wrong." He looked up at Steve, whose forehead was still scrunched up, worry lines deeply formed. "I wish I saw things like that."

"Why don't you?"

Bucky puffed air out his cheeks. "I see too much gray, I guess," he said softly, and he reached up, rubbing at his sore jaw. That had been the first hit, the one he hadn't expected, the one that seemingly had come out of nowhere.

It had been the one that made Rosie scream.

He could still hear his youngest sister's shrill cry in his ears. The moment he realized Rosie had reacted was the second he knew his night was going to get worse. There were only a few iron-clad rules in the Barnes family household. First, women weren't to be hit. Ever. Second, a caveat to the first, was that the women weren't to be scared.

While it hadn't been _him_ to scare her, his father blamed him for it. And when he saw the fist rear back a second time, he knew better than to try to block it. So, he'd accepted it, punishment and fault, all of it. Because where else could it go but to him? He was the only male in the house other than his father. The elder Barnes wouldn't dare take out his frustration on the furniture or other possessions. They'd all survived the stock market crash and aftermath, and knew how scarce items could be – things were looked after with great care.

That brought up a whole new wave of memories he wished he'd could forget. Those years had been the worst years. Even when he'd tiptoed, when he'd tried to avoid his father altogether, to be the best son, it hadn't mattered.

He sat up, his burning lungs desperate to fill with precious air as he frantically shoved back at his past.

"Easy," Steve told him, a hand on his shoulder, concerned eyes taking in his best friend.

"Please, Steve," he nearly begged. "Tell me about the 107th. Tell me about your dad in the Great War."

"All right, all right," he relented. "Just... relax." Steve coaxed him to lay back down on the couch cushions before sitting down beside him.

The story Steve told was one of Bucky's favorites, about the time a kitten found its way into the trench, and how all these fearless soldiers took time to care for the tiny creature they eventually named General. General would sleep tucked into the crooks of muscled arms or cuddled around thick necks, purring so loudly that the sound would echo under their helmets. The gray and white kitten would patrol up and down the trench, rallying the troops, boosting morale, occasionally mewing orders that the men would make up and try to taunt the others into completing. One young private fell for it every time.

As he finished the story, Bucky could feel Steve's eyes on him, but he was stretched out, a hand behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He knew, too, that Steve was waiting for him to fill the silence. Given enough quiet, it happened every time. "Do you think we'll ever see war like that?"

"Nah," Steve said quietly. "That one was the war to end all wars. It's why we have history class, right? Not to repeat things."

"Right," Bucky returned. Except, there were always things that seemed to happen over and over again.

"You don't have to say anything now," Steve said quietly. "But I hope you'll sleep on it, and think about telling me in the morning."

Bucky nodded a bit as Steve climbed up into the bed. They both lay perfectly still for a long time. He could tell that Steve hadn't fallen asleep yet, and guessed they were doing the same thing – staring at the shadows in the plaster. They used to spend summers at Tompkins Park, watching the clouds go by, comparing what they'd seen in them. Steve's answers were always tame – elephants, bicycles. Bucky never saw anything so harmless. He saw a lot of fists, boots. But he never shared that. When Steve would ask what he saw, Bucky would try to think of something Steve hadn't said in a while. A bee, a feather.

In the shadows, he could see long arms that looked ready to punch, hulking figures moving threateningly, though it was only the laundry on the lines stretched between the buildings. "My dad," Bucky said so quietly, and he hoped that Steve hadn't heard him, that he really had fallen asleep in the time that it took for him to muster the courage to say it. Now that he'd uttered it once, he didn't want to have to say it again. Ever. He didn't like admitting to it, didn't like thinking about it. He'd asked Lily a long time ago not to defend him, because it only served to make things worse.

Steve rolled onto his side, peeking over at him. "Your dad?" he asked quietly.

Bucky nodded, but he didn't look at Steve. He didn't want to see the emotion there. He could guess that he was shocked, appalled, even angry at the admission, but he didn't want to know. Because, regardless, it was his only father. No matter how he wished that Joseph and Sarah Rogers had two sons, he knew it was a childhood hope, and it had no place in his life, especially the older he got.

His father had served in the Great War, too, but he never talked about it. He had a vague recollection of seeing a stack of letters once, when his mother was cleaning out an old trunk, but he'd watched his father gather them up, and that was the last he'd seen of them. He'd never know the emotions that his father had struggled to go through, if there were any, or the horrors he might've seen, or worse, endured.

History only seemed to matter to George Barnes when it suited him, which usually meant to the detriment of his only son.

"It's not new," Bucky admitted quietly. "Just, it's not been this bad in a while." In the still of the night, he imagined that Steve was churning through about a dozen different things to say, and the only reason he hadn't responded yet was because none of them were good. Bucky was used to accusations. Though his stomach flipped nervously, he could almost hear Steve's loudest thoughts. _How come you never told me before? It's wrong, Buck, that he does this to you. We need to stop him._

Bucky wasn't sure what that would be like, standing up to his father after so long, after being his punching bag, his scapegoat, his twisted form of therapy. More than that, he wasn't sure he was strong enough to do it, especially not with Steve at his side. The thought of his father coming after Steve, for trying to help Bucky finally fight back made him feel ill – like what he imagined Steve felt like after their trip to Coney Island to ride the Cyclone. He'd never seen a person physically turn green before, but he'd seen Steve do it, and now, even in the comforting surroundings of the room, he was sure he was turning that particular shade of puce.

Under no circumstances was Steve to ever come around his apartment again. Not to walk Lily, Violet, and Rose home if he had detention. Not to stop by and see if he was interested in going to the park. Not because Steve's mom was working a double and one of his sisters had invited him over to eat dinner with them.

Steve inhaled slowly, and he reached down, reassuringly placing a hand on Bucky's shoulder, squeezing it.

"I just need the night to figure it out," Bucky whispered.

* * *

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes will Return...

Lines from the Next Installment:

He glanced up when he felt someone sit down beside him at the bar. "Mr. Stark," he managed, nodding a bit.

"Sergeant Barnes," he returned. "Looking as standoffish as usual." Howard nodded to his glass. "Drink not to your liking?"

"Not so much," Bucky admitted, and he set the half-empty glass down, sliding it away from himself slightly. "This normally isn't your scene."

"My scene would be back in Manhattan," Howard agreed. "A dozen beauties lined up around me." He glanced at Bucky. "No offense."


	4. Chapter 4

For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

Posting early 'cause my tomorrow is probably going to be more than a little insane. Hope y'all don't mind. ~K

Previously: Bucky meets Steve in his Bucharest apartment, getting ready for a fight. He recalls a particularly brutal fight from his childhood.

* * *

Waking up in the warehouse, he's overcome with emotions. They, like his memories, war with each other. He's a hurt animal, pinned down, backed into a corner. He wants to fight but he also wants to lick his wounds and retreat into the nothingness he'd found for himself.

Until someone dragged him out of it.

The sensation of lost time is always overwhelming. This instance is no different, although he wonders how many of these moments he's had exactly. He's never had a clear count, and the harder he tries to put a figure to the mindless hell, he finds that he just can't. Those pieces of time are far too illusive. Those fragmented memories come back, though, and he sees himself in a box, a rat in a maze, a dog in a cage. He hears words he wishes he could remember, words that piss him off, that make him irate.

And then there's a weird sensation that feels like ice water in his veins before he starts battling his way out.

He sees faces that look familiar, but he can't place them fully. Well, one he can. He looks up as Steve comes in.

Steve. The kid from Brooklyn. His best friend. His brother.

At least, they used to be. He can't imagine that Steve still feels the same about him, not after everything he's done.

The weight of everything hits him – the reality of their situation, someone going after the other Winter Soldiers – and he covers his face with his hand.

He used to be different. He used to be a good man. At least, he has a vague notion that his past wasn't always just violence.

Sometimes the images he sees in his head feel foreign, like he's watching himself do something instead of doing it himself. Sometimes those images are black and white. Sometimes they're gray. A lot of times, they're in shades of red and, weirdly, they taste metallic.

Sometimes, he remembers laughing. Warm guffaws, not the kind that sounds creepy after a moment – the kind where he gets lost in his head, the kind where he loses sight of reality. It's easy to get to that stage, though he does try his damndest, so he doesn't find himself adrift.

"Flying cars," he manages, glancing at Steve. "Do you remember when that was supposed to happen? That was the future... but it never was."

"Sometimes, Howard's ideas were too far fetched."

"Howard," he repeats, and his head tilts to one side. The memories are there – a deserted road, a Cadillac, frigid wind whipping around him on the motorcycle – but they're out of focus, like he's looking through a foggy window on a winter's night. And before the panic of the harsh reality sets in, he struggles to hold onto a good memory, one that's fleeting even as his brain reaches for it.

* * *

For some reason, he was never tired anymore. On some level, Bucky knew he should be exhausted. Fighting Hitler and Hydra was more than a full-time job, it was his life now. If he wasn't actually on a mission, he was being briefed abut the next one, or debriefing some higher up about the one that they'd just finished. But, somehow, Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan always managed to make sure they had a little downtime, usually in the form of a morale-boosting drink. Bucky was always happy to partake, but he never quite reached the buzz that he used to, and he guessed he was building up a tolerance. Tilting his high ball from one side to the other, watching thick amber liquid swirl and stick to the glass, he could envision it sliding down his throat, coating his belly. Maybe he needed to switch it up, go back to beer or something on a more regular basis, and then the whiskey would hit with a more powerful punch.

Though he always started with the rest of the aptly named Howling Commandos, he and Steve would usually peel off for a quieter conversation – a work conversation. Steve had tapped Bucky as his executive officer for the unit, and so the next mission was always on their horizon and staging and movement plans were usually still ticking around in the back of their brains, even during the occasional evening drink.

He and Steve had already met to discuss what was coming, and Steve had gone off to discuss further with Agent Peggy Carter. While her initial shooting him down had been hard to swallow, he'd gotten used to the fact that she was Steve's girl – best girl, if you asked the rest of the unit; _only_ girl if you asked Bucky, and only to needle his best friend.

At heart, they were still adolescent boys.

Though now, instead of pretending to be in the 107th and lobbing crumpled up school papers at each other as grenades or carrying sticks as rifles, they were really there, living up to and enhancing the legacy that had all started with Steve's father. While he hadn't been as gung-ho and eager to join the war as Steve, there was a sense of pride at his assignment. It felt right, to be part of the same unit where Steve's father had served.

He glanced up when he felt someone sit down beside him at the bar. "Mr. Stark," he managed, nodding a bit.

"Sergeant Barnes," he returned. "Looking as standoffish as usual." Howard nodded to his glass. "Drink not to your liking?"

"Not so much," Bucky admitted, and he set the half-empty glass down, sliding it away from himself slightly. "This normally isn't your scene."

"My scene would be back in Manhattan," Howard agreed. "A dozen beauties lined up around me." He glanced at Bucky. "No offense."

"None taken," the sergeant assured him. "I wouldn't mind that reality myself."

Howard grinned.

"I get the feeling, though, this isn't a social call." Bucky looked at Howard. While they'd encountered each other off and on at headquarters, Bucky was still getting eclipsed by Steve, something he was coming to appreciate. Although, it had kind of stung the first time they'd met. He had been excited to be introduced after realizing Howard had been the one at the World Expo, but Howard had ignored him, traipsing along after Steve. After being tortured for so long – poked, prodded, and isolated – sometimes it was better, he was learning, just to be by himself.

The engineer and entrepreneur smiled. "Not so much, no. And this is strictly off book."

His interest was piqued, but a crease formed in Bucky's forehead. "What are we talking about, exactly?"

"Your pal's transformation. We're looking at three months worth of actual fieldwork now, real missions. You seeing anything that might be cause for concern?"

He let the words settle in his brain, filtering through what seemed like an easy, above board question, but it felt loaded. He'd been at the receiving end of far too many of those kinds of inquiries, and hoped he wasn't too rusty at dodging it. "I've known Steve my whole life compared to how long I've known you," Bucky said, his blue eyes assessing Howard's unreadable face. "Why should I tell you anything?"

"Because that guy has your back out there and if there's something that Erskine missed, well... It's something that's going to come back and bite you in the ass, fella, not me."

"Then, why do you care?" Bucky pressed.

"I care because I want to win the war."

"Weapons manufacturer, you want us to put our guns away?" asked Bucky with a scoff.

"I want the other guys to stop killing my best customers."

That was a statement Bucky could believe. "Thanks. I think."

"So, how about it?" Howard asked. "How is the Captain doing?"

To him, he would always be Steve. Even though, technically, kind of, Steve outranked him, he couldn't call him Captain. They'd skinned their knees together. They'd learned hard lessons together. They'd struggled and come out on the other side better because of the other. Steve was doing great. "This conversation's done," Bucky said, getting to his feet.

Except, Howard put his hand on Bucky's left arm, stopping him. "I told you this was off book 'cause I don't want the Army to know either."

Bucky tilted his head slightly.

"If there's something wrong with your friend, I want to make sure he's all right. He might've become a lab rat, but he was a real person to start. Having seen the before, I know why you protect him."

"No, you don't," Bucky said, but he sat back down all the same. "You know, we came to see you in New York. Before Steve became Captain America."

Howard's expression changed from concerned to curious.

"I was shipping out the next day. You were showing off some..." He drifted off, still amazed, actually, that such a thing could exist. "I dunno, ridiculous car."

Howard pointed at him. "I'm gonna get back to that. As soon as this war is over and we're all back home safe in our own beds. Well, warm beds, whether they're ours, necessarily, or belong to someone else of a softer persuasion, doesn't really matter. I'll make sure you get one. Flying car, that is."

Bucky chuckled slightly. "You're somethin' else, you know it?"

He shrugged a cocky shoulder. "I've been called worse. Listen, I know you've got no reason to believe me when I tell you, I'm not here because the government's asking me to check up on the Captain. I'm here because he's a guy trapped in a whirlwind of science and technology that, no offense, I don't think he can fully comprehend."

"Steve's the smartest guy I know," Bucky was quick to tell him.

"That's till you met me," Howard corrected. "Trust is earned, right? Fine. What can I do?"

His initial instinct was to blow him off again, to leave a tip for the put-upon bartender, and head back to the barracks. But he didn't. "Tell me what they did to him?" he asked instead. "Steve doesn't really... I mean, it's all hush-hush, right?"

"Quite," Howard agreed with a nod. "C'mon. This requires the good stuff," he told him, and he looked to the bartender, who sighed then dug out a good bottle of scotch, aged fifteen years. Howard paid handsomely for it, and grabbed glasses as Bucky picked up the bottle to review the label before they moved to a quieter table.

Maybe it would get him drunk finally. Maybe that was Howard's whole game, to get him to talk, but hell, it didn't seem so bad.

He nursed the first glass as Howard explained the very basics of the procedure. Vita-rays, the blue serum micro injections. The whole thing had taken minutes, and access to the city's power grid. "Presto-chango, we've got ourselves a super soldier, with an advanced metabolism, healing like you wouldn't believe..."

"Blue serum," Bucky repeated. "You've seen the weapons, right?"

Howard regarded him for a moment. "Something tells me you're smarter than I was led to believe."

"Don't believe everything you hear," Bucky told him, gulping down the rest of what was in his glass, watching as Howard refilled it. Not to be outdone, Howard downed his own and started on another as well. "Is it the same stuff?"

"No," Howard answered, shaking his head. "I'm still looking into those, but it's... I don't know what Hydra is up to. I can tell you that it's a scary game they're playing and I'm through watching us lose pieces. The cost of this one is too high."

"You think we could lose Steve?" Bucky asked, trying not to let the reality of that thought hit him too hard. But, of course it did.

"God help us if we do."

Bucky met Howard's eyes.

"There's nobody else on this earth like him right now."

"He's just a man," Bucky told him.

"Oh, sure, just one man. One lone guy." Howard shook his head. "One fella that's been genetically engineered to perform miracles."

"God did that a long time ago," Bucky told him. "Your experiment just made him taller, bigger. I did try to make him, I dunno, stronger for a while. Took him to my boxing gym." Brooklyn felt like a lifetime ago already.

"That scrawny kid got in a ring?"

Bucky grinned at the memory. "Despite my best efforts to keep him on the heavy bag, yeah. Listen, Mr. Stark, you've got nothing to worry about with Steve. He's not missed a trick, not one step. I appreciate that you're concerned about him. And, I can see that you want to help." He hesitated for the briefest seconds before continuing. "I also know you flew him into enemy territory... I'd be dead right now if not for the stupidity of both of you. And believe me, if I thought, for one second, there was something wrong, I'd be screaming bloody murder to anybody who would listen so that Steve could get fixed. He's the same as I remember. Whatever you did to him... it worked."

"If anything changes," Howard said, glancing at Bucky, "you know how to get in touch with me, right?"

"I'll get somebody on the radio, I guess," he said, smiling a little. "We're out again tomorrow."

"Probably shouldn't be getting you drunk, then, huh?" asked Howard.

While Howard's words were starting to become a little looser, more free-form, the consonants and vowels trying to merge, Bucky still wasn't feeling anything. "I'm all right," Bucky told him, and he decided to press on, not sure he'd get another opportunity to pick Howard's brain. "Steve said Erskine was German. Worked with them before."

"Them," Howard repeated. "You're talking about Schmidt. Hydra."

"The guy with the red skull? Yeah, I'm talking about him." Bucky drained his glass again, and while it burned his throat and he felt like it should be affecting his extremities, his reflexes, he still felt normal. "How can it work so different?"

"Well, that's the question," Howard agreed. "The only guy I know who could've answered it was Erskine. I've got his papers and formulas, and I'm trying to wrap my brain around it, but there are shortcuts in the work, like he just... intrinsically knew." Howard filled Bucky's glass a third time and nodded. "We should finish this bottle."

"We're making a pretty good dent," Bucky agreed.

Howard shifted gears anyway, the scotch clearly affecting him. "You know, I'm surprised. You aren't as bad as I thought you were gonna be."

Bucky chuckled. "You don't know me yet."

"We're gonna get along pretty good, Sergeant Barnes. I can tell."

"I got one more question." Off Howard's glassy-eyed look, Bucky took another burning gulp for courage. "Short of a red skull or knowing that Steve was a hundred pounds soaking wet before he changed... can you tell if it's happened again?"

"Of course I could," he answered at once, puffing up. But it hasn't. There's nobody else with the technology. Hydra's clearly been working on blue zappy weapons, not how to reinvent the wheel, especially when Erskine had it perfect." He let out a breath. "It's just Captain America."

"And Schmidt," Bucky added, looking at the scotch in his glass.

"One too many," Howard told him.

Bucky clinked his glass against Howard's. "One too many," he echoed quietly.

* * *

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes will return...

Lines from the Next Installment:

"This is a far cry from couch cushions," Bucky grumbled, adjusting the pack beneath his head, but equipment was a terrible substitute for a pillow.

"It could be worse," Steve said quietly from where he was stretched out a foot away. "We could be outside in the elements."

Bucky glanced up as the wind rattled the windows on the remote, abandoned hunting cabin, the rain pelting down thick and heavy – probably icily at this point. "True," he admitted.


	5. Chapter 5

For notes and disclaimer, please see part one.

A quick thank you to everyone who has read, favorited, and followed this story. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Posting early again 'cause it's still been a crazy week (month... year?). Many thanks. ~K

Previously: After realizing he'd been brainwashed again, Bucky recalls his first real encounter with Howard Stark.

* * *

For once, he's not frightened to be in a laboratory environment. Walking in willingly has something to do with that, he guesses. It's not Hydra turning him into a mindless killing machine or prolonging his hell. It's his choice, his decision. For the moment, he has control. It provides a peace he's missed, one he's surprised to realize. It's been so long since he's had any sense of decisions being his own.

Seeing allies around him helps, too. Although, he has to admit, his life is pretty crazy when a kid from Brooklyn can call the king of Wakanda a friend. Especially since it wasn't that long ago when T'Challa was convinced he was the enemy and was hunting him down to kill him.

Although, to be fair, Bucky himself had tried to kill Steve recently, too. By all rights, he knows that all the bridges he'd ever built should've been burned by others, considering the monster he'd become. But that one, the one to Steve, stands tall and proud – like the Brooklyn bridge. Maybe that's the magic of his hometown.

Or the magic of Steve. The fact that a team rallied around him at all – even if it was because Steve asked them to – was something else unexpected. It's another sensation he hadn't experienced in years.

He has mixed feelings about losing his arm. On the one hand, he's no longer Hydra's fist – literally. The appendage that was built for him, and continually upgraded, made for utter destruction and damage is gone, obliterated by Tony's suit. On the other, he only has a few vague recollections of losing his arm in the first place. It was so cold in those mountains, mostly he remembers being numb, the sensations deadening in all of his limbs. There are a few flickering images of seeing the stub of his left arm. He remembers the sickening sound of the bone saw most.

But, that's not what he wants to think about before going back under. He's had enough bad to last a dozen lifetimes, he can't stand the thought of sleeping, however long, and those nightmares being his final thoughts. As he steps willingly into the chamber and leans back against the padding, he can feel Steve's eyes on him. He can imagine that his best friend is sad, maybe worried, but those aren't images he wants to remember either, so he can't look back at him.

There was a time when they were young – and stupid – and their whole lives were ahead of them. When Steve was small and skinny. Before the war. Before everything changed. That's what he wants to cling to – boyhood, the hope of an innocent age.

But as he inhales deeply and closes his eyes, that's not the memory that suddenly appears in his brain.

* * *

"This is a far cry from couch cushions," Bucky grumbled, adjusting the pack beneath his head, but equipment was a terrible substitute for a pillow.

"It could be worse," Steve said quietly from where he was stretched out a foot away. "We could be outside in the elements."

Bucky glanced up as the wind rattled the windows on the remote, abandoned hunting cabin. The rain pelted down thick and heavy – probably icily at this point. "True," he admitted. They were lucky they'd found shelter at all, even if the air was musty and thick. There wasn't much furniture left, just a broken table, the built-in cabinets in the kitchen, one door hanging askew, and all covered in a thick layer of dust. It seemed like a place lost to time.

They'd gotten separated from the rest of the unit, sliding down a steep, muddied embankment, but both had avoided injury. Gabe had tossed them down a spare radio before the rest of the Howling Commandos continued on toward their destination – a small outpost where they could rest and get acclimated to the higher elevation before continuing to track ranking Hydra officers. Bucky and Steve were having to hike the long way around to regroup.

"Rosie used to hate storms," he commented idly.

"I haven't heard you talk about your sisters in a while," Steve said, rolling on his side to look at his best friend.

"I shoulda told you, I got a letter from Lily before we left."

"Updates on the whole family, I trust," Steve said, smiling a bit, and he drew his shield closer, resting his head against the star in the center.

"Violet got married," he said. "To some scientist. Lily says it's a good match, that they just had a little ceremony. The girls had to get back to work."

Steve smiled. "What are they doing now?"

"Rosie's in school to be a nurse," he said, knowing Steve would approve. "Lily and Vi were riveting planes together on an assembly line. Well, Lily still is, but Vi got pulled away to do something else. Apparently she gets very cryptic and quiet if asked about it, so of course Lily thinks it's gotta be something important for the war effort, but I don't know what it could be in the Woolworth Building in Manhattan, do you?"

Steve shrugged a shoulder. "Could be anything. I got put together under an antique store in Brooklyn."

"Craziest damn thing," Bucky said, chuckling. "Does it feel different?"

"Not really," Steve admitted. "I mean... it took some getting used to, waking up in the morning, looking at myself in the mirror."

"It is a pretty ugly mug now," teased Bucky. "I can see why."

"Always gotta be a jerk, huh?" asked Steve, but the smile was obvious in his voice.

"You know me," Bucky said, but then he turned serious. "That's... you can't tell anything, though?"

Steve shrugged an impressive shoulder. "I can tell my lungs don't burn when I run. I can actually do push ups, climb things... all the stuff I couldn't really do at basic, I can do now, if that's what you mean."

Bucky nodded a bit. "I guess it is," he said after a moment. "And, I mean, it's clear that you're still you."

"Who else would I be?"

He let the question linger for a moment, then grinned. "A chorus girl?"

"You're just jealous 'cause I spent most of the war so far with two dozen dames and you spent it in the dirt with a whole platoon."

"Rub it in, why don't ya?" Bucky asked, chuckling.

A warm silence fell over them, with only the sound of the heavy rain against the cabin breaking the quiet.

"I have to know something," Steve began after several peaceful minutes. "How did you keep from breaking your leg?"

That was the question, wasn't it? It had been Dum Dum to lose his footing first, and Bucky had reacted, grabbing an arm, swinging the heftier soldier around to safer ground, but he'd lost his own balance in the process. The embankment was easily thirty feet, maybe forty feet down, at a steep angle where there had been absolutely no chance to try to get purchase, to dig in and keep from hitting the ground hard. Seeing Bucky slide, Steve had immediately started down after him. The second they reached the bottom, the Commandos had fallen utterly silent, probably because they'd imagined Bucky to be seriously injured – especially seeing the way his right leg had twisted beneath him.

But he'd been the one to stand before Steve, the whole right side of his uniform caked in thick mud. The collective sigh of relief had been audible.

He thought back to his time under Zola's care, the needles that were jabbed in his arms and the fire that lapped up his veins after every injection, the electric shocks that rattled his brain in his very skull. It had been utter torture. He'd begged God for death. Hell, he'd even begged God to be sent back home, to Brooklyn, to his father's house. He'd much rather take a few punches than endure another moment of Zola's experimentation.

He thought back to Howard Stark. They'd had a few more conversations about the serum that changed Steve, about the science behind it. Bucky had even been given access to one of Erskine's journals. It hadn't made much sense, but there were a few notations in there, snippets of conversations with Steve, about how it would amplify personality.

Steve was always genuine, had been as long as Bucky had known him.

Bucky, by contrast, hid the truth about his father from everyone. He'd eventually told Steve but it had taken years. He hid the truth now, about the experiments – mostly because he couldn't be sure what Zola did. The very last thing he wanted was to be shipped off to some Strategic Scientific Reserve base and poked and prodded further. Especially not now, when Steve needed him. Whatever they'd done to him, good or bad, could be determined later. And if it meant that he could take a tumble and not get hurt, then that sounded pretty good to him, and not something that the scientists needed to waste their time on, not when there were bigger things to consider – like how to counter the Hydra weaponry.

"The 107th only takes the best," Bucky said, which seemed as good an answer as any.

He started to feel the same nagging sensation at the back of his throat, the guilt flipping in his belly that he'd had years ago, when he'd kept from telling Steve the truth about his father. He didn't even really know what had been done to him. He could be jumping to bad conclusions. After all, he hadn't grown a foot in height or added a hundred pounds of muscle after his injections. And, thankfully, his skin and tissues weren't falling off his face to reveal the face of a true monster.

Of course, if Steve hadn't backed him up on the description during the mission debrief with Colonel Phillips, Bucky might've chalked it up to hallucinations, a side effect of his capture, and the treatment, whatever it was.

To make sure, though, Bucky rubbed at his jaw. He needed to shave, but the skin felt solid, as did the muscle beneath.

"Dad would be proud of us," Steve said quietly.

The guilt intensified. "You think so?" Bucky asked, swallowing hard. Because he wasn't sure. The great Joseph Rogers after all was quite a figure to look up to and to aspire to be like, even though he'd never met the man. Steve – and Sarah, rest her soul – had painted such an incredible picture of him that it felt real to Bucky. But the thought of Joseph's approval was almost too much to even consider.

"Serving our country, standing up for what's right... Of course he would."

"You know what's crazy sometimes?" he asked. "Sometimes I think about before I left. Well, before we left."

"You think about those back alley fights?" asked Steve.

"No, I think about... I told you we were going to the future. I mean, I guess it's never what you expect. I honestly didn't think that we were going to reach the future quite so quickly. I mean, you, enhanced by science, and the weapons that Hydra's using against us... It makes you wonder what's going to happen in another hundred years, because the people a hundred years ago couldn't even fathom this time... I couldn't even fathom it a year ago."

"I hope in a hundred years there's a museum with all this. Exhibits about Pearl Harbor, how we've all turned out in droves to fight Hitler. Maybe, most importantly, how the fight isn't just the men in the trenches, it's at home, too, with Lily and Violet putting together planes, Rosie going to school to be a nurse, even kids in wagons collecting tin cans." He grew quiet. "We weren't supposed to have another Great War, you know?"

"Doesn't seem all that great," Bucky said quietly, turning onto his back, his head finally finding a comfortable spot on his pack.

"If we can't learn from our mistakes the first time around, how are we ever going to do better?" asked Steve.

"Exactly." Bucky wanted to do better. He decided he'd tell Steve, the next time they were back at the safety of headquarters, when he had a drink to at least loosen the vocal cords since it didn't work so much with relaxing anymore. It wasn't that he didn't trust Steve – he did, implicitly. It wasn't that he didn't think Steve would have his back – because he would, he always had. It was just that now, on the road to a fight, wasn't the time to distract Steve.

Once they caught up with the rest of the Howling Commandos, once they figured out which Hydra official they were tracking, and successfully got him home for interrogation, Bucky would tell Steve everything. That he couldn't drink anymore, that it didn't affect him. That sleep didn't come easily and most of the time it wasn't even necessary. That sometimes he heard words in his head that weren't German. Or French. They certainly weren't English. He didn't know what they meant, but he didn't like the way they were spoken. There was something specific about the order and the intonation that made him uneasy. But, he couldn't repeat them if he tried, either.

He'd confess he felt a pop in his ankle when he'd hit the ground after falling down the embankment, and though he'd favored his right leg for the first quarter mile of the walk, it was only out of an abundance of caution. Even now, it didn't hurt. There was a slight ache in the muscle, maybe, but he could put his whole weight on it. He'd been hurt enough to know that sprains didn't heal that fast, and, having had one before, he knew the sensation.

"Do you think it'll be Zola?" Bucky asked after a moment. "On the train?"

"I hope so." After a beat, Steve added: "Maybe we'll get really lucky, and Schmidt will be on there, too."

"When is the last time we were ever _really_ lucky?" asked Bucky with a laugh.

It was easily five minutes before Steve came up with an answer. "End of the year school picnic, the tug-of-war?"

Bucky struggled to come up with the same thought, and it took a moment, but then he laughed harder. "When we were eleven? It was only because Edward Laguardia was deathly afraid of mice and that field was full of them."

"You turned in all your tickets for that goldfish for that girl, what was her name..." Steve had to stop and think.

"Nora Manetti," he answered without hesitation. She'd kissed him on the cheek. He inhaled deeply. "Yeah, I guess that was the last time, probably."

"Whatever happened to her?" Steve asked.

"I dunno," Bucky admitted. "But when this is over and we're back in Brooklyn... maybe I'll find out."

"When we're really lucky on this mission," Steve said, letting his eyes close. "Maybe we'll be home before you think. G'night, Buck."

He smiled. "Night, Steve."

* * *

End.


End file.
